


Operation FOAO

by Dunedain789



Category: Call of Duty, Modern Warfare 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunedain789/pseuds/Dunedain789
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gary and Simon are in Northern Ireland surveying a potential PIRA base when they're compromised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation FOAO

Breath misted, twisting and twirling like smoke up into the freezing air as the two men lay motionless in the snow, waiting. The sniper rifle was propped up on the snow bank, a male staring down the scope, his face blank.  
His grey beanie melted into the snow, giving very little evidence to his presence. The grey and white cameo uniform he wore was splattered with mud, kicked up from his wet brown leather combat boots.

“Two Tango’s at our 2 Ghost,” mumbled the male next to him, a pair of binoculars help up to his eyes, as he watched a pair of troops stalk around the snow swept base. His uniform matched the sniper’s, oily brown hair falling out from under his woolen hat. A thick brown beard was forming on his chin, after several weeks of scouting the base.

“Weeks of stalking these bastards, up to our arses in fucking freezing snow is finally paying off, Roach,” grumbled Ghost, a smirk starting to form on his lips. Like Roach, a Ghost was also developing a beard.  
Roach nodded quietly, a feeling of relief building up inside. He was sick of freezing his ass off every morning, afternoon and evening. He swore that Ireland had only one season: winter.

 

The radio crackled to life in Roach’s ear, making him cringe at the unexpected noise.  
“Delta 6, 4, what’s your status? over”

Ghost sighed, pressing the tiny transmission button on the earpiece. “All quiet here. They’re still unaware. Over.”  
Roach felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips at the annoyance in the Englishman’s voice. He could tell that Ghost was getting sick of the constant sitreps.

He rolled his eyes before returning his attention to the base.  
Roach picked up the binoculars and surveyed the base again. They had been sent here after Intel suggested that a terrorist base had been set up. Usually Toad and Archer were sent, but they were both on leave back in London. So Roach and Ghost had been deployed instead, their sniping abilities and tightly knit friendship serving the Task Force well in what Shepherd had called ‘an urgent mission’.  
For once, the intel had been spot on. There was no doubt that this was PIRA base and it was fully loaded with weapons. Roach and Ghost had been tracking truckloads of weapons being brought into the base everyday. Word had come in yesterday that the 141 were deploying teams to clear out the base.

Roach exhaled slowly, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a shiver.  
“Cold, Roach?” Ghost teased, barely able to conceal his grin.

“Bloody freezing. I swear to god your country only has one season,” grumbled Roach, his thoughts back in New Zealand and summers spent on a sunny pebble beach enjoying a cone of icy hokey pokey ice cream.

“Not my country Roach,” mumbled Ghost unimpressed. “This is Ire-land,” he said, gesturing to the snow covered ground. “I’m from Brit-ain,” he made each syllable clear, as if he were educating a rather dense child.

Roach rolled his eyes, returning to watching the two balaclava clad guards walk back through the high gate fence, their shift finished. ‘Right on time,’ thought Roach, shifting his binoculars to the guards up in the patrol towers at the gate. Barbed wire streaked around the tent sprawled camp. Little fires puffed out wisps of smoke.

The earpiece scratched to life again, the too- loud static again making Roach screw up his face with discomfort and Ghost jump. Huffing angrily, Ghost put his finger to the earpiece again.  
“There is no change. Nothing to report. We haven’t changed and the enemy sure as hell hasn’t changed. Nothing has changed,” he growled into the microphone, clenching his teeth as he moved back into position.

“Not the best way to talk to a superior is it Ghost?”

They both smirked.

“You love it sir,” replied Ghost into the microphone.

“You just keep telling yourself that Riley,” muttered a static- laced Scottish accent. “We’re 2 Ks to the south east. We’ll meet up at the primary RV, 10 minutes. Out”

Ghost gave a sigh, packing up the sniper rifle quietly with Roach before shifting backwards, down the slope in the snow bank.

“Bloody MacTavish,” mumbled Ghost. “I swear he h-“  
He stopped mid sentence as the sound of a gentle whistling filled the air, his eyes widening with shock and realization.

BOOM

The explosion erupted from at the base of the tree not 50 metres to their right, spraying snow and thick brown mud everywhere.  
A second explosion hit the ground to the left, the flying mud spewing all over Roach and Ghost who were flat on the ground.  
“Fuck!” gasped Roach  
“Just crawl. Lets not give them a clear target,” yelled Ghost, crawling away from the base as quickly as he could, Roach following closely behind as mortars barraged their original position.

“MacTaivsh come in!” yelled Ghost into his head set, flicking the button on to make constant transmissions as he scrabbled away frantically with Roach just behind.

Static filled the two’s head sets.,.

“MacTavish come in!” repeated Ghost. Nothing.

He glanced back at Roach, grabbing his arm and dragging him forwards to hurry him up.

“They’re getting closer!” yelled Roach, as the mortars steadily became more accurate, shells landing just meters away from them as they clambered through the thick snow.

“For fucks sake MacTavish! Come in you fucking piece of shit” roared Ghost, panic making his voice rise and octave.

“What the hell happened Ghost?” yelled back MacTavish.

“We’ve been compromised! We’re going to make a break for it towards the east!”

“Roger that. We’ll lay low for the while and meet at the secondary rally point in 2 hours.”

“Got it! Going silent. Meet you in two hours. Out.” Ghost flicked the transmission off again, turning to face Roach. “We’re going to make a runner towards that abandoned house to the east. Understand?”

Roach covered his head, as a mortar blast splattered the place with lumps of ice and rock. “Yeah. House to the east. Got it”

Ghost hunched his shoulders, propping himself up on his elbows, squinting to stop the spraying dirt from getting into his eyes.  
“On three. One… Two… THREE!”  
Both men leapt of the ground at once, charging through the thinly spaced trees, the sounds of gunshots echoing from behind them. They zig zagged between trees, making it difficult for the enemy to use them as target practice. Roach heard the loud crack of a sniper rifle, and a whoosh of air as the bullet whistled past, narrowly missed his head.  
The frigid air was drawn into their lungs with loud rattling gasps as they ran like they were possessed, putting as much distance between them and the base. They reached open ground, the snow thick as custard. Ghost stumbled once and was helped out by Roach, adrenalin making them sprint harder and faster.

They only slowed their pace to a jog once they had made sufficient distance, their legs threatening to give out on them.  
They didn’t dare slow to a walk.

Ghost glanced back at the deep tracks from their boots as they jogged. There were deep boot shaped gouges in the thick snow, but there was nothing they could do about the tracks they’d already made. Their socks were soaked with melted snow. No doubt, their toes were wrinkled up like prunes.

Ghost changed direction towards a thick growth of trees, the under growth all but alive- killed off by the lack of light from the thick canopy of branches and the frost. At least they could loose their tracks in here as well as any vehicles that might follow. The ground was devoid of snow, but packed down with slick ice, mud and rotting leaves. Roach slipped, catching himself on a tree branch with a grunt.

Ghost held up his arm, signaling a stop, both men gasping for breath, the sweat that drenched their mud- stained clothes, making them shiver.

Without a word, Roach grabbed the compass that was clipped to the inside of his jacket, holding it in his palm.

“We need to head that way,” he pointed as he spoke.  
Ghost nodded, glancing towards where they needed to go. When in doubt, always trust your compass.

They moved off, criss crossing through the trees. It would help keep the PIRA soldiers confused if they tried to track them.  
Ghost knew they were in the shit. They were in poor weather conditions in the middle of northern Ireland with half the PIRA on their arses. No doubt they’d want to know who they were. All they had to do was get to the strike team and move to the exfil point. Easier said than done. Besides, knowing Shepherd, he’d want the 141 to continue with the mission, despite being compromised.

Ghost reached for glock on his hip, checking the mag was loaded and the safety was on. If the shit hit the fan, he’d be ready to take down as many as he could. Roach copied with a USP.45. Ghost had teased Roach for preferring a pistol with a recoil buffer. Roach teased Ghost for preferring a gun made of plastic.

Roach led the way with the compass, ice crunching under his boots as he walked while Ghost kept a look out; watching Roach’s back to protect his own.

It was a relief when they spotted the old abandoned house. They remained hidden in the trees, watching the surrounding area for any changes. It was their luck that the house was built far away from the road. It had remained abandoned until Roach and Ghost had stumbled upon it one night in a blizzard after tracking yet another truckload of weapons. The thick layer of dust hadn’t been disturbed for a century, and spiders had set up a small arachnid city on the ceiling, much to the delight of Roach.

Ghost checked his watch. It was another hour until they had meet at the rally, which was less than 15 minutes away from their position. He decided not to just make a beeline to the strike team. It could put their team and themselves in danger and they were in no immediate need of assistance now they had put considerable distance between themselves and the enemy. Ghost decided to take a route through the trees and take his time confusing PIRA and loosing their tracks, rather than risk compromising or surprising MacTavish’s little army and being pumped up to the eyeballs with lead.

“Comon Roach,” he murmured, moving back into the trees. He took out his compass as well, keeping a note of the direction he was moving in. Using the house as a checkpoint was to stop them getting lost. If they couldn’t find MacTavish’s team, they could back track to the house and work from there.

They walked for 15 minutes, into the thick of the trees, as Roach kept a watch of their backs and Ghost kept note of the direction back to the checkpoint, as well as covering the front. A twig snapped and they both jumped, guns leveled at a small bird scratching for worms in the half frozen mud.

Ghost looked around and said, “Alright mate, we’ll wait here for a while and then head north. We should make the RV with time to spare.”

Roach nodded, crouching to take inventory of his weapons and gear. Although as a general rule, a sniper team carried a sniper rifle as weapon and a M161A with a 203A grenade launcher for the sniper and spotter respectively, Ghost and Roach were both heavily involved in the strike teams, and had developed a paranoia being left with just one weapon each. Besides, the sniper rifle weighed a ton and were difficult to manoeuvre with while on the move. So they had both opted to carry handguns. Ghost had never been so glad to have it.  
Ghost copied Roach, before checking his compass again. He had memorized the map of the area before the mission, so he knew where the secondary RV point was in relation to the PIRA base and now, the abandoned house. His eyes followed the arrow towards the north. He gave a soft birdcall to Roach to get his attention, and motioned their direction. He nodded in response, expression stoic.  
They trudged towards the RV, boots crunching frozen brown leaves that had been shed in the autumn.

Ghost kept his right hand close to his gun while his left hand held the compass in front of him. The sun flashed through the canopy of barren branches occasionally, making Ghost glad that they were in the shade. There were 6 things that could give you away to the enemy: shadow, shape, silhouette, shine, sound and movement. Sticking to the shade would prevent most of these give-aways

His ears picked up every little scuffle as birds pawed at the leaves for insects, every thump of his boots on the ice, every whisper of wind through the branches.

CRACK!

Ghost spun around, and dropped to the floor in a second, reaching for his pistol as he fell. His eyes glanced at Roach, who was groaning on the ground. His eyes darted around the area. It didn’t sound like the crack of a sniper rifle…

“Fuck,” croaked Roach, not bothering to move.

“You alright?” asked Ghost softly, eyes scanning the deserted woods for movement or a shadow.

“Does it fucking look like I’m alright?”

Ghost frowned, eyes coming to a rest on Roach’s right arm, which was bent at an impossible angle. Fuck indeed.

“What happened?”

Roach glanced up, his teeth clenched as he spoke. “I fell. I tried to catch my self on the tree when I slipped and I fell,” he gestured slightly at the tree next to him with his head, wincing. A branch, which had been ripped off, now lay under Roach’s hand.

Ghost glanced around once more. He couldn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing for it. He needed to get to Roach and there was no other way to check the area than get up and play pop-the-weasel with the sniper that may or may not be aiming at him.

He slowly lifted himself off the ground, senses tingling, as he waited for a tell tale sign there was someone else there. Nothing. He crouched, and tiptoed over to the sergeant, glock in hand, keeping aware of his surroundings at all times. Roach waited on the ground, trying to remain as still and quiet as possible.  
Ghost crouched next to the young soldier, scanning the woods yet again. He shoved the handgun back into the holster when he was sure the coast was clear and turned to Roach.

“Can you sit up? I need to have a look at what you’ve done,” mumbled Ghost, glancing at Roach’s arm, which was bent up behind him.  
Roach grunted in reply, as Ghost helped to sit him up. He groaned under his breath, trying hard to hold back a scream of pain, as sweat broke out on his face.  
Ghost prodded his shoulder blade, tentatively feeling with his fingertips. Roach moaned, clenching his teeth to deny the pain that was shooting through his arm and down his back.

“Can you move your fingers? Any sensation in them?”

Roach tentatively wriggled his fingers, closing his eyes in an effort to forget how painful it was. “It feels tingly,” he muttered. “Kinda like pins and needles.”

“I think you’ve dislocated it mate,” said Ghost, cringing. He fetched his knife out of his vest and sliced off a large strip off the bottom of Roach’s uniform.  
“You’re fucking kidding me,” groaned Roach. He looked pissed off with himself for slipping on the icy ground.  
Ghost nodded gravely, as he tied up the ends of the strip of cloth, and slung it over Roach’s head, as if he was giving him a medal.

There was no way in hell he was going to try and fix it. In the movies, people with displaced limbs were often held down while some untrained idiot wrenched the limb back into its socket. The problem with that was if you did it wrong, you could end up doing more damage than good. Ghost would rather leave it to a trained medic. Besides, relocating it would be painful as hell and he didn’t need Roach screaming bloody murder with the enemy hunting them down.

“Ok mate. Lets get your arm through this and push on,” murmured Ghost as he clasped Roach’s right hand and gently pulled it through the makeshift sling. Roach hissed as his arm was moved into place, fighting against the burning urge to yelp. Ghost released it when it was in place, letting his partners cold fingers fall limply against the supporting material.

It was his right arm, which meant he wouldn’t be able to shoot a gun anytime soon. Ghost would have to cover both their arses and navigate towards the RV, where they had to link up with MacTavish in 15 minutes. There was nothing for it. Without a word, Ghost grabbed Roach around the middle and hauled him up and off the icy ground. The young man whimpered as he stood, the change in position jostling his useless arm as Ghost wrapped an arm around his torso to help him walk. The bottom of his pants was damp with ice, which had melted with his body heat.

They shuffled along the ice and leaf strewn ground, Ghost occasionally checking the compass to make sure they were going in the right direction.

The trees began to thin out, the muffled sunlight occasionally breaking through the thick cloud, splashes to bright light reflecting off the white snow, which now littered the ground in clumps. A heavy dark cloud to the east announced that there was a blizzard on the way. Good time to attack a base, thought Ghost, as he pulled Roach past the thin tree trunks. They were getting close to open ground.

“Phoenix!”

Ghost jumped, before replying, “Flame!”  
Roach groaned, as the unexpected movement from Ghost moved the sling.  
A bulky man dressed in the same camouflage as Roach and Ghost, emerged from the trees. His grey beanie was drawn over his ears, a little black microphone poking out of it and curving around to his mouth.

“We’re clear,” he announced to his team, striding towards the sniper team.

“Sir,” greeted Ghost, puffing as he continued to support most of Roach’s weight.

“He get hit?” asked the captain quickly, barely hiding the concern in his voice.

“No. He fell. I think he’s dislocated his shoulder,” said Ghost, walking Roach over towards the team who almost looked like they were popping out of nowhere. Camouflage was a wonderful thing.

MacTavish nodded, and motioned over a member of his team, who jogged over, heavy backpack bouncing as he moved.

“Alright Ozone?”

Ozone grinned, “Not bad not bad.” He glanced at Roach who was nearly dangling off Ghost, and started to fumble with the zips on the bag, grabbing a first aid kit. Ghost lowered Roach to the ground with MacTavish’s help, depositing him on the ground. Ozone began to check him over like Ghost had, using his fingers to gently prod around his shoulder as MacTavish and Ghost took a few steps back to give the medic some room.

“You didn’t pop it back into place?” said Ozone. It was more a statement than a question, but Ghost decided to answer anyway.

“I figured after what happened to my shoulder, I should wait until he had someone with the training to look after him,” Ghost shrugged.  
Ozone looked pleased. “Thank fuck you didn’t! If you’d done it wrong, it could have screwed up the joint something terrible.”

“I’ve learnt my lesson,” mumbled Ghost, as MacTavish chuckled.

“You were too damned busy trying to prove to us just how manly you were,” commented MacTavish dryly.

Ghost shrugged. “I eat gravel for breakfast and drink 4 litres of concrete a day. What can I say? I’m just a manly person.”

“It’s definitely dislocated, but there’s no sign of shoulder separation,” announced Ozone, glancing up at Ghost and MacTavish who were standing above him. “It’s going to get worse and harder to manipulate, the longer we leave it. Especially in these temperatures.”  
MacTavish grimaced and muttered, “If it's better to do now then you'd better get on with it.'  
Ozone reached back into the bag, pulling out a plastic wrapped syringe and needle, screwing the two together. He pressed the needle into a little bottle of clear liquid, sucking it up into the syringe. MacTavish visibly flinched. He hated needles.

“All right Roach I’m gonna give you some muscle relaxants,” Ozone mumbled, injecting the liquid into his shoulder. Roach made no noise in recognition. He just kept his mouth closed and his eyebrows furrowed.

While Ozone busied himself with Roach, Ghost familiarized himself with his surroundings. He counted 13 soldiers, plus himself, MacTavish, Ozone and Roach, as the rest of the team began taking up covering positions around them.

MacTavish turned to Ghost, and said, “Have a sit down GhostYou look like you’ve been dragging Roach over hell and sundry. The helo will be here soon for extraction.”

Ghost frowned. “Why aren’t we following through with the mission?” It was unlike Shepherd to call off a mission at the last moment.

MacTavish shrugged. “No idea. Shepherd called us back to base. He didn’t give a reason, just told us that he expected us back for a debrief at Credenhill in 2 hours.”

“When’s the helicopter going to be here?”

“ETA five minutes”

Ghost did a few calculations in his head and grinned. “A few minutes to spare? Does that mean we’re able to have some toasty showers when we get back to Credenhill?”

MacTavish gave Ghost a stern look. “Steal my clothes or towel again and I can promise you’ll be doing paper work for a year and heading back to base in a wheelchair.”

A pitiful stifled moan from Roach silenced the banter; Ghost’s smile disappearing in an instant.

Ozone was kneeling next to Roach, easing his arm back towards his chest. A hand towel was shoved into his mouth to stifle any noise. They were still being hunted by PIRA, so keeping Roach quiet was paramount. Ozone murmured what he was going to do, while Roach nodded. He bent the arm at the elbow, and began pressing down on his bicep. When Ozone started pulling the arm downwards, Ghost had to look away, a stream of muffled whines coming from Roach. It hurt to see him like this. Every whine, whimper and hiss grated on his nerves like rusted metal. But he couldn’t walk away. Walking away seemed traitorous at a time like this, where Roach would have wanted his friends.

MacTavish shook his head in disbelief. “Trust Roach to dislocate his shoulder doing something as simple as walking.”

Ghost said nothing, glancing over at the medic and his friend. The arm visibly moved under the long sleeves suddenly, followed by a muffled shout from Roach, before he fell silent.  
Ozone placed Roach’s arm into the makeshift sling as Ghost stepped into Roach’s line of sight.

“Alright mate?” asked Roach, his voice hoarse, squinting up at Ghost through tear-streaked eyes.

Ghost gave a small-relieved laugh, “Not bad mate. Not bad. Your self?” He glanced at Ozone as he said it.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” replied Roach, wincing as Ozone checked his shoulder again.

“We’ll get him x-rayed when we get to England just to make sure everything's right,” said Ozone, as he packed up his gear, the beat of rotor blades thundering through the sky towards them. MacTavish had his hand over his ear, giving the pilot some last minute instructions.  
An SA 330 Puma thumped into view. The fuselage was a light grey and black to create some camouflage. It wasn’t much use with its engine running. The noise of it's engines was devastating, the powerful rotars whipped up the snowy ground into a mini-blizzard as it landed on the ground just outside the tree line.  
MacTavish said something else into the microphone before shouting to the team, “Alright lads we’re moving!”

Ghost recognized Rocket, Chemo, Gortex, Mongrel and Mamba, as they trudged past, but all the rest were unfamiliar. He’d made a mental note to meet them later. Ozone helped Roach up off the ground and led him over towards the helo, asking a stream of medical questions directed at Roach. He answered, but his words were lost to Ghost under the deafening rumble of the helicopter’s engines. MacTavish leapt onto the whirly bird after the rest of the strike team, reached out and grabbed Roach’s left hand, hauling him in. The wind had started to kick up and the black clouds in the distance seemed to race across the sky towards them. Ghost grabbed MacTavish’s wrist when it was offered to him, sitting down on the cold metal floor just as it took off and the door slammed shut.

Roach almost instantly fell asleep, his head lolling on Ozone’s shoulder as the trek towards the Credenhill continued. It seemed to become a ritual for him to fall asleep on the way back to base.

Rocket handed around a pack of smokes, most of the soldiers taking one as the box went past. MacTavish stuck to his cigars like a religion, and wrinkled his nose in disgust as the cigarette smoke filled the aircraft.

“Disgusting habit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hypocrite,” shot back Ghost, taking a long drag from his cancer stick.

“Those things are going to kill you one day.”

Ghost smirked and looked up at MacTavish. “In this job? If I live long enough to be killed by this,” he said, gesturing at the smoke, “I’ll be a very lucky man.”


End file.
